


A Series of Laughs

by klmeri



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klmeri/pseuds/klmeri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabble fills for trek_crackbingo prompts.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He's Dead, Jim

"He's dead, Jim."

The Captain is not paying attention to the doctor because there is a lovely orange-feathered and purple-haired female—possibly a female—making a gurgly noise of appreciation while Kirk conspicuously flexes his biceps. McCoy scowls at his superior's back, about to repeat his declaration rather loudly, when the prone body of the ensign takes a ragged _alive_ breath.

The injured makes a sound like _hrgghhh_ which quickly develops into "Wah… _Doctor_ —?"

Leonard McCoy's fist is swift as lightning. The ensign, decked into oblivion, goes limp again.

Captain Kirk half-turns and asks "Hey, Bones. Did you say something?"

McCoy repeats as grimly as possibly, "He's dead, Jim."

Jim flicks a glance at the dead body (which suspiciously lolls its head) and sighs. He adopts a sad expression for the benefit of his audience—now two colorful females and a puny blue squawking man—and announces, "Ladies, I am afraid that this tragedy will cancel my plans to stay on your lovely world. Adieu!" Kirk makes a sweeping bow at the same time that he fluidly removes his communicator from his belt, flips it open and cries "Three to beam up, Scotty!"

The doctor rolls his eyes. They disappear in a glitter of particles that makes female feathers quiver with loss. The man-bird rages for some minutes.

~~~

Jim grimaces as he steps down from the transporter platform. "That was a close one."

"Damn it, Jim! Give me a hand here. This one's fat."

The Captain looks pityingly at the unconscious fellow. No doubt Bones will have the poor ensign living on replicated cabbage and nutrient cubes. He grabs one ankle, McCoy has the other in hand, and together they drag the crewman into a corner to nap.

Bones pursues his lips at the _whir_ of the tricorder, seems satisfied with the ensign's medical readings, and tucks the instrument into a back pocket that Jim wasn't aware regulation uniforms had. McCoy then turns to the Captain and pokes Jim in the chest. Hard.

"Don't expect me to help you like that again." The doctor goes on to grumble about his sore knuckles.

Kirk ignores the complaints. "As… intriguing as the pink one's feathers were, if I'd stayed on the planet she'd have wanted to..." The Captain makes a crude gesture with his hands.

McCoy is unimpressed. "So?"

"So…? Bones! You're the one who said that after the female copulates, she consumes her partner!"

"No, I didn't," drawls the man. " _I said_ that those pretty beaks looked sharp enough to crack a man's bones. Spock's the one who fed you that line about the man-eating sex!"

"But Spock…" Kirk blinks. Frowns.

"Is probably laughing up the sleeve of his Vulcan robe at you. Jesus, Jim. You can't believe everything that hobgoblin says."

"Vulcans can't lie," Kirk counters weakly.

Scotty, who'd been leaning against the transporter console eavesdropping with interest, interrupts. "I'd agree with Doctor McCoy, Capt'n. Vulcans dinnae lie unless there's a good reason."

Jim's confusion grows. "Why would Spock lie to me?"

McCoy sighs loudly. "Jim-boy," the man emphasizes with a slap to Kirk's back, "obviously you've never had to chase around after a Captain such as yourself. You're a handful."

"Aye," the Scotsman nods. "That'd be the way of it, Sir."

Kirk narrows his eyes and decides that he doesn't like this turn of conversation. However, before he can find a tactful verbal escape route to shut up the two officers, the door to the transporter room slides open. Spock, hands clasped behind his back in traditional fashion, makes a quick observation of the party, including the drooling lump of a redshirt bunched up against a wall.

"Captain, welcome back. I trust that you had a satisfactory exploration of the Wrenxes' homeworld."

McCoy bursts out laughing, causing Jim's unhappy expression to rapidly darken to displeased. Spock simply raises an eyebrow.

Since Jim cannot get away with not answering, he settles for saying, "It was fine, Mr. Spock." He mutters under his breath, "Though it could have been better."

Spock nods once, pivots and exits. Doctor McCoy is still wiping away tears of laughter. Mr. Scott gives his Captain a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"It's alright, Capt'n. Ye cannae be other than ye are."

Apparently Captain James T. Kirk's ingenious crew has learned how to deal with that little fact.


	2. Redshirt Helpline

The man answers the call in monotone. "Redshirt helpline. Woes or worries? We're here to help. My name is Jack. Who is speaking please?"

Static interlaced with sobbing comes through on a line. The answer is, at best, garbled.

Jack of Redshirt Helpline makes a noise of disinterested agreement. "Uh huh, uh huh, uuuuh huh. Please hold."

He punches in a series of codes. A voice answers with "Mary."

"Hey, Mary. Got another one."

"Male or female?"

"Don't know. It's all high-pitched wailing to me."

"Do you at least have a starship locale?"

Jack pulls up a database and skims to the last call entry automatically added to his log. "Enterprise."

"Whoop-dee-do" is Mary's dry response.

Jack switches back to the caller. "Thank you for holding. A specialist will be with you momentarily." He immediately transfers the call from his desk.

There are already three angry red flashing lights on his console. He picks the one in the middle. "Redshirt helpline. Woes or worries? We're here to help. My name is Jack. Who is speaking please?"

"I need help."

 _Obviously, dumbass._ Jack's voice is carefully modulated to a combination of soothing and pleasant. "May I have your name, Sir?"

There is a short silence. "I'd rather not say. What if this gets back to Captain K—um, the Captain?"

"A pseudonym will be fine."

"Okay. Call me… Shorty."

Jack rolls his eyes. These redshirts are so unimaginative. "Hello, Shorty. How may I assist you today?"

"Well here's the thing. The Captain has assigned me to an away team but everybody knows that we redshirts are the first to die! I mean, is it the color of our uniforms? Is it some big cosmic plan that we have to be shot, stabbed, mind-controlled, eaten—"

The list goes on for some time. Jack doodles on a personal PADD. "Mmhm. Yes, I understand. Oh, that sounds rather unpleasant."

Finally, the redshirt winds down. "What can I do?"

"Shorty, there's only one thing that you are allowed to do."

"What's that?"

 _Bend over and take one for the Federation._ He says instead, "Explain your concerns to a commanding officer."

"Er, that's not a good idea."

"Is your captain unwilling to acknowledge—"

"No! Magnus's blue balls!" That makes no sense in Jack's opinion, but he's heard more colorful metaphors in his last ten years of helpline service. "Captain K— _the Captain_ , he's great but I just can't, I mean, it seems so stupid to complain…"

"If you are uncomfortable approaching your captain, then try the First Officer."

Shorty's voice is nothing short of incredulous. "No, _that_ definitely won't work."

Jack's quick glance to his log confirms that Mr. Shorty Redshirt is from the Enterprise. He hears that the First Officer is a Vulcan. Shorty is probably right. Vulcans aren't exactly sympathetic to the work conditions of redshirts.

Shorty interrupts his wandering thoughts. "Please, what can I do?"

"I will have to consult with management on this issue. Please call back at a later time."

He reaches for the disconnect button as the voice pleads, "Wait! Hey! I'm scheduled to go down in an hour—"

Poor Shorty. In all likelihood he won't need to call back. He'll be dead.

Jack stretches in his cramped little cubicle and briefly adjusts the tiny plaque engraved with his name and _Employee of the Month_ in five different galactic languages.

The next call consists of "First my fiancé Jeff was turned into a cat which no one could undo for _two_ weeks. He shredded all my best blouses! And then he was sent down to a supposedly _safe_ planet, I was assured that it was SAFE, and I find out that he got stomped on by a _dinosaur. I WANT TO FILE A COMPLAINT!_ " Jack explains that because the couple wasn't officially married, she is not entitled to benefits or compensation; for this reason also he cannot legally address the situation. Jack redirects the enraged woman to Starfleet Customer Service. That conversation ends with a resounding _click_.

Then it's "I think I broke my head but Doctor McCoy's so _scary_ …" It's easy to promise—and the idiot is gullible enough to believe—that Jack will forward to the redshirt McCoy's work schedule so he can find a time to get help when the doctor isn't on duty.

Jack sighs, swallows two little blue pills for his impending migraine, and answers the next call. "Redshirt helpline. Woes or worries? We're here to help. My name is Jack. Who is speaking please?"

"Dan."

"Hello, Dan. How may I assist you today?"

"I'm going to kill myself."

Jack sits up. _A live one!_ "Dan, first, let me thank you for calling this helpline. Tell me. Why do you want to commit suicide?"

"I'm going to die anyway. Isn't it better to die by my own hand?"

"We all come to an end some day, Dan."

Before Jack can continue to practice his budding knowledge of psychotherapy (he's in the process of obtaining a degree; this is a night job), Dan says, "Not the Organians. Or the people who live in fast forward or those colonists with the happy spores or—"

"Dan, those are exceptions. You cannot compare yourself to an exception. Do you know what you are?"

"A redshirt?"

"A being fated to die."

"Then why shouldn't I just do it already? I hear that we're headed into uncharted territory. Do you _know_ what happens in uncharted territory?"

"No," Jack admits. He is curious. "What?"

"Aliens in cubes, that's what! Or a giant hungry amoeba… Fuck, can I kill myself now?"

"No! Tell me more about the amoeba. Was it like—"

Dan starts crying, which is not unexpected. "I had a buddy that wasn't even _in_ Engineering but his laundry had gotten mixed up and he put on a red shirt and then the Klingons attacked and a blast comprised the entire deck _and_ …"

Jack listens in fascination as Dan pours out a tale that is highly unlikely but must be true. No wonder redshirts have a helpline. He idly wonders if the color red is cursed. Or maybe red is just a curse on the 'Fleet's flagship—sort of like enticing a seething bull. _Hm._ What a good idea for a book: Staring Down the Bull of Fate.

Dan has subsided to quiet, hiccupping sniffles.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Dan. Life can be cruel but we have to keep fighting."

"So I shouldn't do it?"

"Do you have family?"

"A brother. And a cousin on the Deneva colony."

"I'm sure that they would be sad if you were to end your life, Dan."

"They think I've died twice already. The computers get glitches sometimes and mix up our names on the away mission roster…"

"Oh."

Dan sighs so loudly that Jack has to pull out his ear piece. "Thanks for listening, man. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone who understood how much it sucks."

"You're welcome, Dan. By the way, are you based on the Enterprise?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Dan, I can truly say that you aren't alone."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I guess… I gotta now."

"It was my pleasure to be of service, Dan. Don't forget to complete the survey at the end of this call." He switches over to another line.

"Redshirt helpline…"


	3. Wild Animals

"Ladies and gents, children of all ages! Do we have a show for you this evening!" Ringmaster Kirk doffs his top hat and tosses it once in the air, catching it behind his back with an ease that makes little children scream in excitement.

Tonight, the Enterprise Circus has their main tent brimming with an intrigued audience—both big and small, old and young. The colored lights perform a dazzling dance across the hard-packed dirt and straw-littered ground. Scotty has done a great job with the old mechanical spotlights that they cart from town to town. Jim ought to pay him an extra day's wage for the fine work—if the show earns enough during the two weeks they will be situated on the outskirts of the dusty town.

He introduces the performers with flair. "You will be amazed by our acrobats and their daring leaps of faith." Pavel, high up above the audience, does a quick run and tumble across the stretched wire. People gasp. Nyota and her small band of traipse artists do a series of short swings, flips and catches—Uhura's red tight outfit like fire shimmering in the moving lights. Jim stands proudly in the center ring, a grin stretching his face as Nyota is passed with ease from swing to swing, even caught by her foot at one point which sends up a wave of applause. These folks haven't seen a tenth of his crew's talent and they are already in awe.

Commanding the attention of the audience again, he crows, "You will laugh until your sides hurt!" Enter the clowns on small bicycles. Bones, the leader of the Clown Brigade, walks amidst the troupe in a casual stroll. His face is painted in ridiculous shades of white, blue, and red. One of the cycling clowns—a bright yellow costumed Chapel, Bone's right-hand woman in inventing and revising their stunts—"accidentally" meanders off her path with a tell-tale wobble and crashes into Bones. He is, unbeknownst to the avid watchers, absolutely prepared, does a loud shout (an obscure Russian curse, since Jim says that the man can't horrify their potential payers with his filthy mouth—it's all about sales, Kirk insists), flings himself into a long roll and pops up staggering like a drunk. He says something like "Watch out for them bees, Ma!" in his rolling Southern accent, sending everyone into gales of laughter.

Kirk waits until the laughter subsides. "The show does not end there! Prepare to be entranced by the Great Sulu!"

Hikaru Sulu is decked out in his magician's attire. "I am the Great Sulu! I have powers unlike any other. I can make it rain…" With a wave of the man's hand, Scotty is cued to release the small blasts of confetti, and it rains glittering color. "I can make it storm!" Sulu, more of an actor like Kirk than an actual magician, flings both arms wide and a sharp crack of thunder rolls across the top of the tent. He grins widely and pulls off his tall black hat. "I can even pull a rabbit out of my hat!" The audience chuckles when Sulu produces a white, startled looking bunny. Hikaru bows and, in a wave of smoke, vanishes.

Once the excited chatter has quieted to murmurs, Kirk purposefully clasps his hands behind his back and does a long pace across the center ring. "But the best is always last, my good people." He drops his voice to low menace and projects it straight at them. "Not just the best—the most _dangerous_." There is a pause in his pacing and his words. It has the desired effect. They are riveted.

"Behold!" is his sudden bellow. Kirk swings his white-gloved hand to the dead center of the tent. A black sheet is pulled off of a large object with a flourish by two circus performers, dressed-up workers of Scotty's—maintenance by day and part of the show by night. (Even in this small way, Kirk makes sure that everyone is involved.)

There are loud gasps and titters. "The beast!" Jim cries. As if it knows its job, the tiger roars loudly and paws at its cage bars.

Jim pivots to his left. "And his tamer!"

A spotlight hits the exotic face of Spock, who silently and calmly walks into the center ring.

Some of the audience shift nervously when the tiger jumps in the direction of Spock. Little do they know how much that big kitty is enamored of Mr. Spock, who raised it from a cub. Spock will have it purring and tame in no time flat. Because it's better for business, Jim has worked out a routine with the animal tamer that keeps the audience on the edge of their seats as the tiger seems to vacillate between being wild and giving in to its master. They have this performance down to a fine art.

The crowd is anxious now for the Enterprise Circus's promise of wild and wonderful entertainment. He has teased them long enough. The elephants come ambling in, the beautiful lady Galia with her bouncing red curls waving languidly to everyone from her high perch on the tallest elephant. Bones sends in his clowns, he himself juggling, while Pavel and Uhura and the team of acrobats jump over one another and somersault in the air. Sulu comes to stand beside Spock who is motionless in the middle of the chaotic orchestra of light, sound, and uproarious applause.

The ringmaster—one James Tiberius Kirk—cries out, "Let the show begin!"


	4. Invisibility

"Hello, Doctor."

Leonard jumps, startled, and bangs his knee on the edge of his desk. Clutching his throbbing kneecap, the doctor settles for swearing so soundly that his Momma would have tanned his hide had she been alive and in the vicinity. (God rest her sweet soul.)

"Doctor," repeats the disembodied voice.

"Damn it, Spock! What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that? Lord spare us, you were already too good at Vulcan stalking when you were visible. Now it's just plain creepy."

The ensuing silence means that the Vulcan is offended. McCoy drags his desk chair back into place and sits down.

"Mr. Spock," sighs the doctor. "What brings you to Sickbay?"

"I find that… I am troubled."

McCoy bites back a sarcastic remark. Instead he picks up one of the scattered PADD pens on his desk and twiddles it between his fingers. "You're invisible. Anyone—even a Vulcan—is bound to find this troubling."

Spock is quiet again.

Leonard tries to draw him out a little. "How's everyone on the Bridge coping?"

"Work performance remains within an acceptable tolerance."

"I'm not accusing people of not doing their jobs, Mr. Spock," the doctor says gently. "I meant their reactions… and treatment of you. I imagine it's hard to talk to a colleague when you can't see him."

"You do not display distress at this conversation, Doctor McCoy."

He shrugs. "I know you are there but it's easier to pretend you are standing behind me. Otherwise, I'll wonder where you might be. It's distracting, to say the least." He tries another tactic. "What about Jim?"

"The Captain is well."

Vulcans might not take the time to lie but they certainly find it useful to side-step or misconstrue tough questions. Perhaps Ambassador Sarek's diplomatic talent has passed down to his son.

"Then there is no awkwardness between the two of you, Commander?"

"Negative."

The slight hesitation in that one word gives McCoy more insight than all the other lengthy phrases Spock can string together.

He leans back in a comfortable slouch, prepared to wait out Vulcan stubbornness. "When I was up there earlier," the man drawls slowly, "every time you reported to the Captain, Jim might have answered you, Spock, but he certainly didn't _look_ at you while he did so. That doesn't bother you?"

Ah. Blessed silence.

"It's alright, you know. I'm amazed at how well you have acclimated to your condition. Were I in your shoes, I'd be clear up the wall in fright. Imagine… not being able to see your own reflection in the mirror!"

"The experience is manageable."

Meaning Spock isn't as collected about this invisibility bit as one would guess from his voice. Considering that the Vulcan's voice is all people have these days to locate the First Officer, that isn't much to go by. Luckily, McCoy has had a little training in his psych-courses with interpreting inflection and vocal tone of a patient.

Spock would be offended again if he knew that McCoy thought of him as a patient. Quite frankly, there has to be a logical reason for Spock to have come to Leonard for company. And it's not for Leonard McCoy's view on life.

"Well, you are doing an admiral job of pretending to be normal." Time to call in the big guns. "However…" He lets the rest of the statement trail off.

Spock takes the bait. "Please proceed, Doctor McCoy."

"However, I know for a fact that you aren't sleeping well—"

"Vulcans require intermittent rest."

"—because I've been hearing reports of ghosts haunting the corridors at night." He pauses. "And we both know it's not a ghost, don't we, Spock?"

"I fail to understand the relevancy of my nocturnal habits in this discussion."

"You're upset. You have every right to be. In fact, I'd be damn worried if you weren't!"

A silence settles again over the CMO's office.

Finally McCoy asks, "What's the status with your labs?"

"There are several unknown parameters which require definition before the completion of testing."

That doesn't sound good. Spock's lab technicians must be as befuddled as McCoy's medical staff. He can take readings from Spock, but it's difficult to arrange for the proper tests during the Vulcan's semi-annual physical examination, let alone when McCoy can't even tell if he's waving his tricorder in the right direction. That had been a experience Leonard hopes to never repeat.

He tries to sound cheerful. "Well, I'm sure those brainiac science officers of yours will have you fixed up in no time."

"Two weeks, three days, and fourteen point nine hours," drifts the voice from the vicinity of Doctor McCoy's shelving unit. Leonard works hard not to look in that direction. His gaze remains straight ahead.

"That how long it's been?"

"Precisely, Doctor."

"I'm sorry, Spock," he says heavily. "I truly am."

"As am I."

After a moment, struggling to think of a way to comfort the Vulcan, the doctor calls, "Spock?"

No answer.

Because his office door is always open and Spock is invisible, the Vulcan can easily slip out. McCoy clears his throat. "Spock?"

The First Officer has vanished as quietly as he appeared. Leonard purses his lips once, looks at his desk of monthly inventory reports and slowly goes back to work. It takes two hours for his unease to blossom into nagging worry.

He knows that the more Spock isolates himself because of the invisibility and its discomfiture, the easier it will be for people to forget that he exists. Then, Lord forbid, the Vulcan might just become a ghost after all.

Leonard makes a call to the Captain.

"Kirk here."

"Jim, stop by the bay after your shift, will you?"

"Bones?"

"We've got a situation to discuss."

There is a short pause before the Captain answers. "After shift. Kirk out."

Oh yes, Spock needs more than just a team of scientists working on his cure. He needs the support of his friends. Kirk and McCoy will have to do until they can figure out how to involve the rest of the Enterprise crew. And then, perhaps, the doctor won't have to worry about the their Vulcan First Officer's increasing estrangement.

The ordeal is bizarre, its outcome grim. He fervently hopes today's slim hope becomes tomorrow's certainty. The ship simply wouldn't be the same without a certain, curiosity-piqued hobgoblin.


	5. Elopement

"He did _what?_ "

"I believe the term is… eloped, Doctor."

"Say that again."

Spock tilts his head.

When the Vulcan does not comply, McCoy grabs two fistfuls of that blue uniform (Hell, Spock can't unwind even on vacation) and yanks the Vulcan into spitting range. "Say. That. Again. MR. SPOCK."

"Doctor," Spock states instead, "you appear to be on the verge of coronary distress."

Leonard makes a sound like a boiling kettle. He attempts to shake the Vulcan out of that infernal amusement but knows that Spock weighs a sight more than apparent. Talk about bone density. McCoy is forced to release the First Officer.

"When's he coming back?"

Spock's look clearly implies _How should I know?_

"Damn." Leonard decides that he is going to rip into someone because there is no way—

Ah. Here comes a fool now.

"Jim!" barks the doctor.

Kirk hesitates with one foot in the door to their bungalow. "Bones?"

McCoy begins to bounce on the balls of his feet in agitation. "Spock, tell 'im."

"I attempted to contact you, Captain, upon immediate notification of—"

"Scotty's made off with the ship!"

Jim wobbles on his one leg, has to plant his hovering booted foot down hard. "What?"

"My sentiments exactly!"

"…Scotty… and the Enterprise? ... _Where's my ship!_ " Jim has gone from stupefied to instantly upset.

"The Chief Engineer's parting words were broadcast over our communication units, Captain."

"I forgot mine. We're on shore leave!"

Meaning that Jim Kirk deliberately left his communicator. McCoy could strangle the idiot. "He's eloped with the damn ship, Jim."

Again, Jim seems to be tangling his speech. "E-Eloped? _Elopement_ … with the _Enterprise?_ "

"To clarify, Sir, an unexpected journey between two hand-fasted individuals with the intention of securing their bond. I find that the word 'elopement' has a fascinating origin pertaining to the ancient Terran rite—"

Spock, unfortunately, is cut off by McCoy's screech of dire threats should the Vulcan continue to elucidate on the definition of _to elope_.

Jim finds a chair and sinks down into it. "Scotty stole my ship…"

McCoy pauses in his harangue to glare at the distraught Captain. "I told you. He ain't been right in the head since that incident with that damn homemade blender of his. Lord in Heaven, we had to run the man through a _metal detector_ to find all the staples. I still think we missed some."

"But, Bones, it's _my_ ship!"

"Pfft. The real issue is that we're stuck on this tourist trap of a planet until he comes back!"

"Negative, Doctor. In a situation such as this, we are obliged to alert Starfleet. They will arrange for our transportation to the nearest starbase."

Leonard crosses his arms. "So you're saying that we should turn Scotty in?"

The Vulcan raises his eyebrow. "He absconded with a constitution class vessel. Regulation states that we must do so."

Jim says sincerely, "Enough. Let me think."

With a purse of his lips, McCoy stares at Kirk until the Captain looks away uncomfortably. Leonard's self-imposed silence doesn't last long. "Well? How are you going to get us out of this one, Jim?"

The man winds a hand into his short hair and tugs. "No idea, Bones."

Leonard turns to Spock. "Vulcans are supposed to be the brightest bulbs in the box. You'd better have a solution, Mr. Spock, and don't bother with that Scotty-is-a-criminal crap either."

"Mr. Scott did announce his honeymoon arrangements."

Kirk jumps up. "That's it, Mr. Spock!"

"I took the liberty of acquiring a shuttle for our use, Captain, and programmed the appropriate course."

Leonard looks between the two officers. "So we're going to crash the wedding party, huh?" He smiles then. "Count me in."

As Jim sets about collecting a few items for travel—searching for his jacket, that is—the Vulcan turns to observe the impatient but suddenly pleased doctor. "The shuttle can comfortably accommodate three persons; however, I am aware of your… dislike for space travel in small crafts."

He shrugs. "Jim has been climbing every damn peak on this rock and I'm tired of waiting for him to fall off one of 'em. He'll be restless but at least I won't have to chase after him. Besides, as long as you don't pester me with inane facts, I can manage."

When Spock does not correct McCoy's blatant assumption that the Vulcan is the source of all the doctor's woes, Leonard's grin grows in size. "Why, cat got your tongue, Mr. Spock?"

"Why would a member of the feline species have possession of a muscle necessary to aid the mastication of nourishment?"

"It's a sayin', you overgrown elf!"

The Vulcan pivots, hands clasped securely behind his back, and calmly speaks as he walks away. "I rather suspect that 'pestering' is an activity of the poorly engaged mind, Doctor McCoy."

"Hey!" calls the Chief Medical Officer, knowing a Vulcan insult when he hears one. He _hrmphs_ as Spock disappears into his room to pack. Then Leonard McCoy goes in search of a carefully stowed and preserved bottle of bourbon in the bottom of his 'Fleet-issued traveling bag. He is sure that a drink or two will be in order for this newest little misadventure of theirs.

And maybe Jim can be coaxed from his (not well-concealed, not at all) sadness that Scotty got hitched to the Enterprise first.

Damn crazies.

Leonard is secure in the knowledge that he is the sanest of them all.


	6. Super-Secret Ability, Mirror!verse

"Super secret abilities." James T. Kirk pauses, meets random pairs of eyes in the crowd. Most of the recipients of his hard stare flinch and look away. The man's voice is sharp and booming, thanks to the voice enhancer built into the podium. "Each of you must come forward on the day that you are assigned and undergo testing by a specially trained group of professionals who will identify and isolate any undocumented ability that you may have." _Are hiding from your superiors_ is very much implied in the Captain's announcement.

There is a low murmuring through the four hundred plus crewmen of the ISS Enterprise.

An ensign raises his hand hesitantly. "Like… a superpower? Sir."

The Captain's eyes fall to half-mast. "Stand up."

The wide-eyed ensign does so.

Kirk promptly shoots the idiot with his phaser. The man disappears, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Relevant questions," he tells them coldly. "Ask only relevant, intelligent questions—or keep your mouths shut. Dismissed."

Captain Kirk exits, followed closely by his First Officer. The rest of the crew quickly file out and go back to work. If people are jumpy for the remainder of their shifts, this is to be expected.

Many of them _did_ lie just a tad on their 'Fleet applications.

~~~

_Two days later…_

 

"Damn it! Hold him down!"

McCoy wields his scalpel like the weapon that it is. The scared air-bound lieutenant flits by them, knocking over a tray in the process. McCoy has never seen anything as ridiculous as a full grown man being chased through medical bay by irate nurses.

He'd laugh if he wasn't so damn pissed at Kirk for instigating this new reign of terror on the ISS Enterprise. Spock, that bastard of a bearded Vulcan, takes this grave moment of embarrassment in Dr. McCoy's Sickbay to enter, pause, and observe the mess.

"You may contact Lieutenant Sulu for security's assistance if you require it, Doctor."

"Shut it, half-breed," snaps the man. "We're—"

There is the sound of a crash and a loud scream from the ensign in the adjacent room.

"—taking care of it," he finishes with satisfaction. "What the Hell is Kirk up to? I've got better things to do than poke and prod every unsightly pore of this pathetic crew."

"I must have your results thus far." Spock ignores his bitching.

McCoy shoves a few items with his foot, sees a partially cracked PADD, and tosses it at the Vulcan. "Here. Take a gander." He pulls another scalpel seemly out of thin air. "Haven't had time to add the latest fool—he's a flyer, apparently, and forgot to let the 'Fleet know—but that won't make much difference."

The Vulcan tucks the PADD under his arm. "Why would that be, Doctor McCoy?"

The man's grin is telling. "'Cause ain't none of 'em worth worrying over, Mr. Spock. They're dead." He scratches his chin in an absent gesture. "So if you'll excuse me… I'm sure that Nurse Chapel has sedated our bird-man by now. I've got an examination to finish."

McCoy turns and walks away to complete a task that might prove to be entertaining after all.

~~~

_Five days after that…_

 

While the ship lurches through space in a chaotic state, Kirk sits in his Captain's chair idly peeling an organically grown apple with a sharp blade. (No one asks where the apples come from, wouldn't dare to.)

"Report, Mr. Spock. What have we discovered so far?"

"I have completed a detailed report on the matter, Captain. It is available—"

The Captain waves his knife languidly. "Just give me the highlights. Who is valuable to the ship and have we eliminated those that aren't?"

The Vulcan stares at the back of the Captain's head. "As of the end of gamma shift, fifty-three persons have evacuated their posts—" Kirk twists in his chair to frown at the Vulcan. "—and one hundred five persons have suffered irreparable damage during Doctor McCoy's medical examinations."

"What do you mean, evacuated?"

Mr. Spock recites in a monotone, "There are twenty-nine suicides by phaser, a fatal brawl between two crewmen with the ability to grow in size and strength which resulted in twelve deaths, seven unclassifiable accidents, three drownings, and two missing persons which I suspect molecularly reassembled in a different sector of space."

"How many living have not undergone testing, Mr. Spock?"

"Two hundred and sixty-five individuals."

"Have them rounded up."

"This estimate includes the primary bridge crew and yourself, Captain."

"Fine. Everyone but me. And you, Mr. Spock. Perhaps Doctor McCoy… though he did ruin over a hundred potential candidates. That's an uncanny ability in itself, don't you think, Mr. Spock?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"Then I'll allow you to conduct his interrogation personally."

"As you command, Sir."

The Vulcan does not immediately return to the laboratories now solely dedicated to the Captain's current project. The expected question comes.

"Spock. One last thing."

"Captain."

"You aren't hiding more than standard Vulcan prowess, are you?" Kirk's eyes are bright but cold. "Replacing a First Officer is a pain—constant supervision and underhanded dealing." He has a shark's grin.

Spock purposefully lifts an eyebrow in a show of disregard for Kirk's implied warning. "I remain, Captain, in the state in which I joined the Enterprise under Pike's rule."

An answer that isn't an answer. The Captain gives him a lazy look. "Dismissed."

With a tilt of his head, the Vulcan exits the bridge. When Spock is alone in the turbolift, having easily tossed out two whimpering, pitiful ensigns, he unclasps the hands behind his back and drives a fist into wall with a sizable burst of energy. Mr. Spock notes that the burn mark now circling the dent in the metal indicates that his aim is still satisfactory.

He orders the lift, "Deck 37, Medical."

Once McCoy is taken care of—barring any unforeseen abilities that the psychotic doctor may have—Spock can focus on augmenting the Captain's paranoia until the path is clear of all obstacles. It also helps that he can seduce a fragile mind into believing the improbable. Even the ungifted members of this crew can be easily manipulated into joining the insanely terrified ranks of the ship.

Then the First Officer shall commandeer the ISS Enterprise with all the grace and glory of a rattler in the weeds.


	7. Fan Mail, Paranoia

_I like you._

Spock, with an eyebrow raised, discards the first message as irrelevant. Though he does not forget—as Vulcans have well-ordered and extremely excellent memory banks—the Vulcan has no time to consider the strangeness of the phrase. He simply decides that it was a message sent in error; it was more likely intended for a giggling yeoman or a shy ensign.

Some days later, he is placing his order at the replicators in the mess hall when a surreal notion of being watched prompts the Vulcan to turn around. The chatty, social crowd situated around the room is ignoring his presence, more engrossed in flirting with tablemates or arguing over the latest publications on warp-core technology. Spock picks up his meal, intent on consuming the proper amount of nourishment in a proper time frame when he is summarily slapped on the back by his Captain.

"Spock. Find us a seat, will you? I'll grab some lunch."

"Captain."

Kirk smiles knowingly. "Jim."

The only two seats available are at a table occupied by the irascible Doctor McCoy. The man eyes Spock when he asks, "May the Captain and I join you, Doctor?"

McCoy gestures at the empty seats opposite him. "I ain't got no claim on 'em, Mr. Spock. Have at it."

The subsequent conversation over the course of the meal and fascinating banter between the Captain and Chief Medical Officer is enough to keep Spock from recalling his earlier unease. Spock ends up spending twice the amount of allotted time for lunch.

Upon returning to his quarters to address some basic bodily functions, Spock returns from the bathroom to find his computer console flashing with a new message. It reads:

 _I like you_ very much.

The anonymous sender has emphasized the last two words. Spock re-considers the small possibility that he may be the intended recipient. Illogical, highly improbable, but possible nonetheless.

~~~

The frequency of the messages increases; Spock creates a graph highlighting the difference in time intervals upon receipt during his spare time. The messages do not change in content, remaining along the lines of rather impersonal (to Spock) observations. It's not until he receives the twelfth message which boldly states…

_It's sexy when you hypothesize before bedtime._

…that Spock feels uncomfortable.

The natural response, of course, for even an emotionally repressed Vulcan is that Spock must identify his admirer and ask her or him to stop.

"Spock?"

The Vulcan blinks, reorganizes his train of thought, and half-turns to ask, "Yes, Captain?"

Kirk is frowning at him from his chair. "The report, Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan hastily (he acts as calm as ever) taps a button on the console of the science station and rattles off a list of mundane readings. When he finishes, says, "Is that all you require, Sir?" Kirk has not changed expression.

"Spock, are you feeling alright?"

Vulcans do not flush with embarrassment. "I am in optimal health, Sir."

"Oh. Well, carry on then. Sulu, warp…"

Spock goes back to work, feeling eyes on him. He cannot afford to be distracted from the affairs of the ship again.

~~~

One particular shift, Mr. Spock rises, showers, and dresses in time to find a short sentence stating,

_If only every man was a Vulcan like you._

He foregoes the completion of his daily routine and spends the next twenty nine point nine minutes resetting the security on the computer's message retrieval system.

Later, when walking the corridors of the ship with quarterly inspection reports in hand, the Vulcan comes to a halt as a group of crewmen round a corner. He greets the group at large with a nod and several "Lieutenants" as they stream past.

That's when he feels the brush. No, not a brush. A deliberate touch of one body part to another. Spock immediately stiffens, pivots with his back to the wall and eyes the retreating group of people. None of them appear concerned or interested at his reaction.

Spock is unnerved, to say the least.

If he snaps at a laboratory tech—a poorly phrased, brusque communication of words—after she steps within one meter of his personal space, he will experience a small sensation known as guilt when her face pales and she quickly moves to put the table between them. Spock does apologize in a roundabout way and proceeds on through the shift desiring only to return to his quarters and meditate.

~~~

The physical contact, after much rational thinking, he classifies as an accidental occurrence. That soothes Spock's mind for the time being and he is able to focus on his performance as First Officer of the Enterprise, which includes settling disputes between Science and Engineering, preventing the Captain from being brainwashed by another hostile race, and vetoing the collective insistence on a holiday party. (There are no religious holidays recognized by the Federation as there are simply too many religions contesting for dominance.) A blissful (to a Vulcan) week passes without a message of adoration.

Then Mr. Spock walks into the medical bay during his free shift to address an unfortunate phrasing of words from Doctor McCoy to an official of Starfleet when he overhears the following:

"Oh but don't you think his ears are the cutest?"

There is giggling, some of which is too strange to be identified as male or female.

Another voice inputs, "A baby version would be adorable!"

"I'd love to—"

Spock says loudly enough, "I am here to speak to Doctor McCoy. Is he available at this time?"

McCoy pokes his head through a doorway. "Spock! Why I'll be! Hold on a sec."

When he enters the main area of the medical bay, he does so not alone. Three nurses and a grinning lieutenant follow right behind McCoy, some of which seem to be paying particular attention to Spock's ears as they slide past him. The Vulcan immediately proposes that he and the Chief Medical Officer retire to the doctor's office for a "pertinent discussion on diplomatic communication with Starfleet Command."

McCoy scowls so fiercely that the tension in Spock's back releases its tight grip. But throughout the day, he cannot help but wonder if what signs he might be missing. He sleeps per usual but does not feel rested upon waking.

~~~

The next message follows swiftly.

_I must agree with the consensus. Pointed ears intrigue me._

Suddenly, all actions around Mr. Spock are subject to suspicion. He may be stating a report to the Captain in his usual flat tone, but he'll be watching a yeoman in the background and think that her eyelashes are quivering in an unorthodox manner. When the navigator leans over his shoulder to point out an interesting set of data on Spock's console, he can't help but count the seconds until that person moves away. Even the Captain's random touch of a hand to his shoulder or squeeze of his arm is not above doubt.

Unfortunately, Spock cannot seem to voice his objections to any one person. He continues to be bombarded with strange looks, glancing physical contact, and now—he suspects—an overage of innuendo during professional conversations.

Such occurrences would drive a normal man mad. Spock is half-Vulcan. He adapts.

~~~

As he reviews the updated list of messages in his personal files, Spock contemplates this conundrum that must be solved. He runs down the list, repeating aloud:

"Vulcans mate for life. So do I."

"I wasn't bored during yesterday's briefing. Your voice is phenomenal."

"Did you like that bowl of plomeek soup I sent you?"

"You look good in—"

A sharp buzz causes the Vulcan to break off mid-repetition. He hesitates before answering.

"Spock here."

"Spock, it's—"

Kirk's introduction (as if the Captain needs one) is interrupted by a loud "Open this damn door, on order from this ship's Chief Medical Officer!"

Spock had forgotten that it was locked. He commands the lock to release. The door slides open to reveal Kirk and McCoy, the latter of which pushes his way into Spock's quarters and crosses his arms.

The Vulcan's eyebrow naturally rises to greet this display of the doctor's. "Good evening, Captain. Doctor. How may I be of assistance?"

"Now look here, Spock—"

"Bones." The fond nickname still has an undercurrent of authority. The Captain gives his First Officer a small smile. "Good evening, Spock. I hope that McCoy and I aren't interrupting… anything."

He punches a quick code into his PADD and it shuts off. "No, Sir. Won't you be seated?"

McCoy is not known for holding his silence long. "This is business. I think we'll stand."

Again, Spock is intrigued. "I am always available to discuss any issue or concern pertaining to the functionality of the Enterprise."

"Right. Well, this is about _you_ , Mr. Spock."

"Doctor, if you will elaborate."

"Don't patronize me, you green-blooded—"

"What Bones is trying to say is that we're worried about you, Spock. You haven't been yourself lately."

He blinks. "I have not detected any change in my behavioral pattern, Captain."

"That's just it, Spock," McCoy tells him while his look intensifies. "You won't notice that about yourself because you'll rationalize any little differences. But other people will notice—and have."

"You seemed distracted at first," explains Kirk. "Now…" He glances at McCoy.

The doctor adds, "Now, you're the opposite. You are too aware." He pauses. The next word takes Spock by surprise. "Paranoid."

Paranoid. Spock is unable to accept this for thirty seconds. Then, upon examining the honesty in the eyes of the officers who stand before him, Spock feels that he must acknowledge the word's existence.

The Captain saves him the trouble of formulating a proper response. "What is bothering you, Mr. Spock?"

McCoy nods as if to say, _yes, tell us_.

"It is a private matter. At this time, I am unprepared to discuss details."

"Do I have to make it an order?" asks Kirk softly.

"I desire that you do not do so."

"Jim, you can't just let this go." The doctor says, "Spock, it's important that we are aware of anything, _anything_ , that might affect you in a negative way. If you don't feel comfortable talking to Jim or myself, then I would advise you to seek out the ship's counselor."

Kirk sighs and Spock realizes that that small exhalation of air bodes ill. "McCoy is right. Sorry, Spock, but consider this your official notice. Talk with the counselor. Captain's orders."

He bows his head. "I will do so."

They leave him, then, to the task of rehearsing a dialogue with an imaginary counselor. Once Spock has outlined any potential troublesome questions, he catalogues specific answers that would make his Ambassador of a father proud.

Spock re-engages the locks on his door, boots his PADD, and goes back to mulling over the paradox that are those annoying, remarkably disturbing messages. Who sent them?

~~~

The session with the counselor doesn't go at all like Spock plans. A non-descript young man with glasses introduces himself and asks the Vulcan to take a seat.

"I'm rather new at this job, so bear with me, Mr. Spock."

"Of course, Dr. Roddenberry."

"Gene, please. I find that I love working on this ship, more so than any other—such fun dynamics."

The Vulcan does not take the bait.

The counselor clears his throat. "This is an official appointment, of course, because of the Captain's involvement but that won't prevent us from the niceties of conversation between two intellectuals."

Fascinating. Spock recalls that this man has only been aboard the Enterprise for three months, one week and five days. Perhaps Dr. Gene Roddenberry will continue on in this position longer than his predecessors.

"Let us begin. I have hear that your shipmates are concerned about your—" The man pauses, adjusts his glasses. "—paranoid behavior."

"I do not display behavior atypical of a Vulcan," explains Mr. Spock.

"Ah. And what behavior is typical of a Vulcan?"

"Logical, rational behavior."

"Would you use the description carefully controlled?"

Spock admits, "This is a crucial component of the process."

Roddenberry smiles and murmurs, "Vulcans are superior in every way."

Just the way that the man speaks makes Spock sit up straighter (though that is hardly possible). "Please explain your sentiment, Dr. Roddenberry."

"Gene. I was merely pointing out the obvious, Spock."

Spock is silent for some seconds. "I am not familiar with all facets of Terran humor."

"I promise you," says the man as he leans in slightly, "I wasn't joking. I've always admired you, Mr. Spock."

If Spock's eyebrows could go higher, they'd vacate his face altogether. "You… admire me. You are suggesting that you have respect for my position," he clarifies.

That smile widens, showing a top row of very straight, gleaming white teeth. "Respect is part of it."

Spock now feels the beginnings of a suspicion tickling his brain. He says, without meaning to, "I am aware that I have popularity with a certain individual of this crew."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Does it not? Then you must also know that I am not privy to the identity of this individual."

"A little mystery keeps us sharp, Spock," explains the counselor.

"I find that I do not appreciate such admiration." The Vulcan does not flex his fingers against the table; not at all. "It is an illogical approach."

"Then you wish to be approached in person?"

Spock finds that there is no safe way to answer that question. He says nothing.

The counselor taps a pen against a clipboard. "Spock, tell me one thing."

He tilts his head as an indication of _proceed_.

"If you could choose the identity of the person sending you love notes, who would you want it to be?"

Spock's brain takes only a moment to recognize the inevitable. He stands. "At no point in time during this conversation did I specify the form of communication from my admirer, Dr. Roddenberry."

The man looks, quite simply, unrepentant. "You didn't answer my question. Who, Spock of Vulcan?"

"There is only one wish I shall express to you: I harbor no intention of reciprocating the desired response of an inappropriate message; such action must cease at once."

Roddenberry frowns.

"This concludes our session. You may inform the Captain that a satisfactory outcome has been achieved."

~~~

Point in case, the messages do stop. Spock is able to restrain himself and present a façade of graceful calm that appeases the Captain and enrages the Doctor (as is proper). He does, however, keep close surveillance on the ship's counselor. Spock is at the point where he has a favorable balance between his work and his extracurricular spying (non-invasive, of course) when something unexpected happens.

The Enterprise returns from one of its bouts of time travel—unfortunately too frequent for Spock's liking—and the body count of the crew turns up short. It takes hours, but Spock is able to discover who the missing crew member is.

Dr. Gene Roddenberry.

It is late in gamma shift and Spock stares at the report in his hands. He decides, prudently and with no small amount of pleasure, that this turn of events is not necessarily ill-fated. A series of careful tweaks to the report, and the Vulcan signs his signature with a smooth motion of the PADD pen.

Ship's counselors are apt to come and go. No one need know of the particulars of this man's disappearance. The Enterprise will acquire a replacement at the next starbase.

Spock sleeps and wakes refreshed for the first time in some months. And the Enterprise goes on about its business in blissful ignorance of a man that is creating its history from a knowledge—and a love—that is just too good to be true.


	8. Off With the Fairies

Leonard has had just about enough of this nonsense. With his trusty stick, he bats at the next fairy light that giggles and tries to attack his leg. Unfortunately, the doctor's aim has never been wonderfully accurate and his knee takes the blow instead.

The light hovers with an almost inaudible sigh of disappointment as McCoy curses, clutching his leg, and rolls around in a patch of purple moss.

It dances and titters and generally calls up an army of its friends. Leonard stops his profanity streak in lieu of staring at the multitude of hovering rainbow-colored lights that sing above his head. He prays that maybe they'll go away.

They don't.

Leonard goes for the abandoned stick as they swarm him. He thinks he actually knocks aside a few of them, considering the way the majority go from joyful bobbing to angry dives like bees from a disturbed hive.

"You won't take me!" he cries as he first crawls, then stumbles to his feet and runs.

Leonard is halted in his mad dash by a large tree because he is too busy looking over his shoulder. Only, it can't be a tree, he muses through sharp pain, cradling his head, because trees don't wear boots.

Boots that look like his.

The tree is actually a Vulcan who greets him, eyebrow up, "Good afternoon, Doctor McCoy."

"Spock!" Leonard latches onto the Vulcan in a way that will make him squirm with embarrassment later. "They're after me!"

Spock blinks in the direction from which Leonard came. That's when McCoy realizes everything has gone eerily silent, save his own harsh breathing. Slowly, Leonard detaches himself from his would-be savior and looks around.

Nothing but funny-shaped trees and more purple moss.

"But… but they were just here," he says weakly.

"Doctor, it is imperative that you return to the camp. The Captain was most displeased to discover your absence."

"I—heard someone calling me," he tries to explain to Spock's back as they trudge through bracken and brush.

"This planet shows no significant life other than vegetation." The Vulcan is saying that he thinks Leonard is crazy.

McCoy wastes no time in correcting his companion. He tugs at Spock's uniform and waits until the Vulcan faces him. "Now look here, Mr. Spock, I know I'm not goin' round the bend."

When Spock opens his mouth, Leonard warns, "And don't you _dare_ tell me I must have been dreaming!"

Spock says, "Very well," and without a further word resumes his determined marching back to camp. Leonard has little to do other than follow.

~~~

It's pretty obvious that Leonard isn't crazy when they enter the clearing of their camp and are ambushed by small, squat men with long noses and sharp teeth. McCoy howls as he shakes one off of his arm. Spock, that blasted Vulcan, has already disappeared into the melee of dirty fightin' red-shirted officers and man-sized creatures with leaves in their hair and vines to snag their prey.

McCoy calls "Spock!" then "Jim!" and has to leap out of the way of a thrown projectile that turns out to be an acorn the size of baseball. Unfortunately, he backs into a tree. Said tree grunts un-appreciatively, pulls up its roots and walks away to replant itself elsewhere, leaving a stunned doctor on the ground.

Things don't get any better because that's when Leonard looks up from his sprawl to see a roiling mass of fairy lights making off with the Captain of the Enterprise. Jim is flailing and kicking his legs, but it is rather hard to find purchase on a cloud of miniature people with butterfly wings.

He hears Kirk yelling, "Put me down! I am Captain Kirk and I come in peace! PUT ME DOWN!"

Leonard scrambles upright and does what any good officer would: He calls out, "Don't worry, Jim! We'll save you!" and decides that he can't do that without backup.

Spock is found in the middle of a circle of enemies, sitting on a throne made of alien oak and wearing a crown of alien hawthorn. Leonard gapes. "What in _tarnation_ are you doin'?"

Several things hiss at McCoy and just as Leonard supposes that the naked lady with talons rather than fingers is going to rip him in places he won't like, a voice rings out, "He is not to be harmed."

Shadows fall away from the doctor as Spock gracefully glides through the throng and it parts for him in reverence. Leonard can't understand why some of them are bowing.

"Spock?" Is that his choked voice? "Spock, they've taken Jim!"

"Indeed," answers the Vulcan with a strange look in his eyes.

Leonard tries to grasp the situation. "Aren't we going to save him?"

The First Officer raises an eyebrow. "Jim is safe also, Doctor McCoy."

It clicks. He gasps, "You! Y-You're ON THEIR SIDE!"

"For once, you make a logical assumption."

What he does make is the sound of an enraged tea-kettle. "Why, you green-blooded hobgoblin!"

Spock gestures to the evil-looking mushroom men on Leonard's right. "Those are goblins." Then he introduces a humanoid with unnerving silver eyes. "This is an 'overgrown elf.' Perhaps you might rephrase your insults, Doctor."

Leonard looks a bit wildly at Spock's court. They grin in return, some displaying nice long fangs. He backs up. Spock follows.

"I don't know what they've done to you, Spock, but you have to—to know you aren't one of these—"

"People," emphasizes the Vulcan with menace.

Suddenly the Vulcan is too tall, looms like a wrathful god; the subjects around him make a collective dreadful sound, like hunger. Spock is still talking, saying, "Be careful of your words, Leonard McCoy…" A fairy light flies in, blocks his view, and all he can see is the glowing red with a background of muted, dark figures ominously reaching for him and he cries out…

" _Spock!_ "

Leonard McCoy wakes up, a painful denial on his lips and a mouth dry with terror. On his left, something—someone—stirs and asks sleepily, "Sir? Are you alright?"

He places a hand against his heart, as if that will slow its wild beating. He remembers where he is, drops back down to his sleeping bag, an arm flung over his eyes, and replies, "Fine, son. Go on back to sleep now."

There are the sounds of the young man, a security officer newly appointed to the Enterprise, rolling over and falling back into sleep. Leonard listens to that snoring and past it, the lull of the night. Something cracks, like the snap of a twig, in the forest beyond their camp and Leonard finds himself holding his breath.

When nothing else disturbs the peace, he tries tiredly to fall asleep. Still, it does not surprise him when some time later, as he twitches in his bed roll, a voice whispers close to his ear, "Leonard… _Leonard_ …"

He resolutely places his flat pillow over his ears. _Don't listen,_ he tells himself. _Don't listen._

 _And tomorrow_ , as they pack up to beam back to the ship after an uneventful exploration of this planet, _apologize to Mr. Spock, you damn fool._


	9. Cowboys, BAMFery!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain likes the prompt but not the _add crack_ part. Three different snapshots, the first of which is a "prequel" to the sixteenth drabble written eons ago for the drabble collection _The Odds Are Better Together_.

"Spock, try this one!"

Leonard McCoy's head pops out from between a billowy dress and an armored chest plate hanging on a clothes rack in the back corner of the Requisitions department. With unnatural glee, he thrusts an outfit in the direction of his Vulcan friend. When no one relieves McCoy of his burden, the man glares. "Take it! I haven't got all day to play dress up with you. This one will do fine."

"The garment is unsuitable."

McCoy purses his lips. "Mr. Spock, _everybody_ wants to be a cowboy."

"I shall attend the gathering, Doctor, but I find it illogical to pose as someone I am not."

With a roll of his eyes and a long-suffering sigh, the doctor gives up. "Fine, be a stubborn hobgoblin. Ain't no skin off my nose!" He eyes the black vest and little red necktie in his hand and grins. "I still say it's a great idea. Maybe there's a pair of boots in my size somewhere..."

Spock knows that a response is unnecessary. The Vulcan clasps his hands behind his back and waits for the doctor to finish his strange (and undoubtedly _human_ ) pursuit of "the perfect costume."

 

 

~~~

 

 

”Don’t make this any harder than need be, fellas. Lay down your weapons nice ‘n slow—and no one gets hurt.”

The Captain and his First Officer consider the seriousness of McCoy’s slow drawl, then follow the order. Kirk’s phaser dangles from his fingers for a heartbeat of a moment before it drops to the ground to join Spock’s phaser.

“Bones,” he tries again, calm despite the bow-tight muscles in his shoulders.

“I said my name ain’t _Bones_ ,” answers the man with heat. “That’s a thing you call a man before you send him to the grave, mister, and it ain’t time for that kind of talk. You understand?” He takes one step forward, phaser leveled at both of the officers. “Not unless _you’re_ ready to be six feet under.”

“Captain, it seems this is not the doctor.”

The man dressed as Chief Medical Officer, with McCoy’s body but not his mannerisms, turns his attention to Spock. “What are you? I’ve seen Apaches with faces that’ll turn their mothers’ milk sour but you—you’re the devil himself.”

Kirk tamps down on an inappropriate urge to laugh. He stage-whispers to the Vulcan, “I think he finds your ears disturbing, Mr. Spock.”

Spock responds only with a lift of his eyebrow.

“No more talkin’!” The wary man circles them, no visible sign of nerves. “I’ll ask the questions and you’ll give me straight answers. If I don’t like an answer, I’ll shoot.”

Kirk can recognize a man who bluffs—and this doppelganger is not the bluffing type. “Okay,” he agrees mildly as he lowers his hands. “You ask, we answer. And then we will ask _you_ a question.”

The man nods. “Fair enough. What is this place?” _How did I get here?_ remains unsaid but understood.

“You are on the starship Enterprise,” answers Jim. “I am Captain Kirk and this is my First Officer, Mr. Spock.”

“Star—ship. Ha!” The man’s laugh is McCoy’s too. “What kinda fool do you think I am, son? There’s the sea and there’s the stars and there ain’t no way to combine the two. Ship. _Star_ ship.” The man snorts, props a boot on the low bottom edge of the transporter console and leans forward to rest his elbow on his thigh. He gestures with the phaser in his hand. “This place smells clean. Don’t know many clean places where I’m from, except on rich folks’ land. Someone here has got money.” Those bright blue eyes linger on Kirk’s uniform insignia. “Military?”

“Something like that, Bones.” Kirk grins. “Sorry. You look too much like my Chief Medical Officer—you could be his twin.”

“If your friend is an honest man, then he ain't no kin of mine."

"Captain."

Spock says his name in a way that means _this man is unknown to us, potentially dangerous_ and _be careful_. Jim is not always careful, but he knows how to turn a situation to his advantage when necessary.

"Look, I don't want a fight," Captain Kirk tells the stranger. "As far as I'm concerned, you are a welcome guest on my ship. We don't treat guests with hostility—and we expect the same courtesy in return."

The man is quiet for a minute, eyes locked on Jim's. Then with exaggerated care, the McCoy look-a-like places his phaser on top of the console. His words are rueful. "I wasn't sure I could work that thing anyway. It looks enough like a gun but I wouldn't place a bet that it shoots like one."

"The weapon is similar to an old Earth-style gun. Deadlier, though."

"That so?" drawls the stranger. "A bullet's mighty dangerous, depending on where it hits."

Jim walks over and brushes a hand against the abandoned phaser. Watching the man watch him, Kirk comes to a decision. "Here," he says as he flips it around to demonstrate the settings and how they work. "It will stun an enemy at this level."

The man lifts a hand to point at the other extreme on the phaser's handle. That hand is an eerie replica of McCoy's, with long fingers but dirty nailbeds and a dark tan. Kirk recalls how often Bones insists that clean hands are a prerequisite for doctoring.

Not-McCoy is saying, "And this kills?"

"Yes." He pauses. "It will disintegrate the target."

Those blue eyes lift to his. The stranger's silence is as striking as a cry of denial. Finally, the man asks, "What did you say this place was called?"

"Enterprise."

"A... starship."

Spock steps into the conversation, hands clasped behind his back. "Affirmative."

"You have proof?" The stranger's eyes dart around the room, observing the metal, soft glowing lights of the computers and the raised platform of the transporter.

Jim wants to say _you'll be okay, this is a safe place_ but it is not his job to sugarcoat reality. He offers honesty and no less. "Follow me. I do have proof."

Spock walks in the rear as Kirk leads. One or two crewmen turn to watch as the trio transverses the corridors or to nod deferentially with "Captain" by the lift as they stand aside.

One young man bumps shoulders with their guest upon exiting the lift and murmurs, "Sorry, Doctor McCoy."

The man stills. When the lift doors close again and it resumes its ascent, he tells them softly, "I'm not a doctor."

"What is your trade?" Jim asks politely. Small talk may ease the tension choking them.

He receives a sharp look. "Hired gun."

The Vulcan, always curious, asks the man to clarify that title. Before Kirk can think of a way to explain the slang, their companion laughs shortly. "Means my only loyalty is to the money I'm offered for a job."

Spock remarks, "I infer that 'hired guns' perform work which necessitates the use of a weapon."

"On the mark, pal. He's a sharp one," the man says to the Captain with a sarcastic edge.

"Spock is not _human_." Kirk's voice is coldly displeased at the insult aimed at his friend and colleague. He purposefully suppresses the more appropriate truth that Spock is _half_ -human. The Vulcan does not correct his statement.

That face pinches, a quick breath drawn in, and Jim sighs. He repeats the expressed sentiment from the transporter room. "No one here will harm you."

The man gives no indication of accepting Jim's vow, simply places himself so that Captain Kirk is closest to Spock. Spock inclines his head in understanding to Jim, whose face has a touch of sorrow.

As the lift states "Observation Deck," Jim thinks of McCoy. If this man is here, where is Bones?

They enter the Observation Deck. Kirk and Spock remain at the entrance in silence, watching as that familiar face turns in wonder to the brilliant display of stars. The man walks as far as the wide navigational wheel, a hand automatically anchoring to one of its handles. After some time, words are quietly spoken: "The heavens are full of stars. Is this where I am—Heaven?"

 _It's close enough,_ Jim thinks.

At Kirk's side, Spock says, "You are in space. If you will provide your name and your origins, we may begin an investigation into your return."

He looks in their direction, then, silhouetted by starlight. "My name's Leonard Horatio McCoy."

If Spock is as surprised as Kirk, then the Vulcan's body does not betray his reaction. "Your birthplace, Mr. McCoy," the Vulcan reminds softly. An almost-command.

"Where I'm from is where I'm needed most."

Jim's mind follows with the inevitable question. _Then what need has brought you to us?_

 

 

~~~

 

 

"Damn it, Scotty! Beam me to the ship! BEAM ME TO THE SHIP!"

McCoy's communicator crackles unhappily and dies. Leonard tucks it into his belt with a curse rather than tossing the useless device into the dirt. Spock would hound McCoy for ages if a native of this planet picked it up. (Leonard hasn't forgotten the long-winded lecture from that time he accidentally left behind his "heater" in the impressionable hands of the Iotians.)

He is hunkered down by a short, wide post of a broken fence. Another spat of gunfire chips at the wood around him.

"Come out, you yellow-bellied hog swill!"

Leonard bristles. He damn well isn't a coward! He is a doctor with a heathly sense of preservation and an excellent understanding of what kind of damage bullet shrapnel can do to a man's innards.

The jingle of spurs cut ominously through the air as McCoy's tormentor approaches. "I promise not to put too many holes through you, old man."

"I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake!" he cries back. "I'm unarmed!"

"If you was a smart doctor, you woulda brought a gun. Only fools walk into this town and don't expect trouble."

Stupid Starfleet exploratory expeditions. Stupid races with penchants for behaving like crazies in a Western film. "For the sake of knowledge, my ass," he mutters to himself. Where's that damn curious Vulcan and his nerve-pinching fingers anyway? Hasn't McCoy told Spock many, many times that curiosity killed the cat?

Oh, that's right. Spock had said, "I am not feline, Doctor McCoy."

He spends a few seconds cursing a literal-minded half-Vulcan who must enjoy making Leonard's life pure hell. Between Spock and Jim, McCoy is surprised that he hasn't considered resignation or early retirement.

A voice says from above his head, "You a praying man, Doc?"

Leonard is tired of being someone's target practice while the townspeople ignore the maniac chasing him or hoot and holler in entertainment. He stands up, brushing the dirt from his pants. "Well now, son, let me consider that..."

The man grins at him from the other side of the fence.

Leonard's fist is backed by enough temper to break the man's nose. Then he steals the swaggering idiot's gun, cocks it and blasts a hole into the dirt beside the man's right temple.

"I may be old, but I can still knock a tin can off a fence post at a hundred yards."

The man on the ground groans.

McCoy finishes in a low drawl, "Be thankful I'm a doctor, not a cowboy." He tucks the gun into his belt next to the communicator. Pausing to consider the prone man, Leonard stoops, pulls off the man's hat and slaps it against his thigh before placing it firmly on his head. There is no protest of the theft. Then Leonard goes in search of an errant hobgoblin and captain.

He finds them in front of a tavern, Jim grinning brightly at a lady in a low-cut gown. Spock has his nose pointed at his tricorder, the Vulcan's brain apparently preoccupied with fascinating numbers and stats.

Kirk notices the doctor first.

"Bones!"

"Jim," he replies. "I see you were... getting around to noticin' my absence."

When Kirk reaches for the black cowboy hat perched on McCoy's head, a finger goes up in warning. "Uh uh, Jim-boy. You'd be wise not to touch that."

"Going native, Bones?" Jim says with a hint of teasing.

He makes sure to look as serious (and deadly) as possible. "You never know."

Spock seems to realize that he and his data have company. "Captain." The Vulcan looks over to McCoy. "Doctor." Then, "Doctor, might I ask where you acquired that weapon?"

Leonard pats the gun with satisfaction as he saunters past Jim and Spock. "Why, in the same place I got the hat, Mr. Spock. In a gunfight."

Let his friends stew over that!

He tips his hat at the woman lazily waving a fan and offers her a wink, a "Ma'am" and then his arm for escort. With his prize—all of his prizes—the only thing Leonard presents to his fellow officers is his retreating back.


	10. Talking Like a Thesarus

"Hey, Bones." The man perched on the edge of the examination table grins at the doctor entering the room.

Doctor Leonard H. McCoy, physician and friend of James Kirk, grunts in response as he starts scribbling notes on his clipboard.

Kirk, shirtless and bright-eyed, tries to peer over the top of the clipboard to see what his doctor is writing. "How can you have something to write yet, Bones, when you haven't even asked me to cough?"

"With you, Mr. Kirk, my first instinct is to check for visual wounds—seeing as how you've stumbled more than once through my front door bleeding like a stuck pig or with half of your hair burnt off. Scared the shit out of my nurses."

"I don't think Chapel's scared of me at all—she was pretty rough with the blood pressure cuff."

"Being scared for you and scared of you are two different things, Jim."

Nurse Practitioner Chapel has repeatedly asked McCoy why he continues to allow Jim to keep coming here. "It can't be about the money—we have plenty of patients! But we're a family medicine clinic, not a trauma unit, Len," she always argues.

"Christine, we _help_ people. Are you telling me that's not why you went into the medical field?"

The woman still glares at Jim Kirk every time the man appears, winking at the pretty nurses behind the glass enclosing the reception desk. It does not help Kirk's case that he never keeps his appointments, choosing to only come in on the fly, or if his cell phone's voicemail is overloaded with McCoy's sharp, short reminders like "Get your ass in here, kid—Chapel's going to stab you if she has to re-schedule your appointment one more time!" or "If you're not taking those vitamins, I'll put you in the hospital so fast your head'll spin."

If Kirk shows up and McCoy isn't in the office to see him, the man shrugs (dripping blood or not) and walks back out. Or so his staff says.

Leonard is used to the eccentricities of his regular patients, and Jim Kirk is no exception.

The young man fidgets throughout the routine exam. Leonard smacks his patient's knee after the third failed attempt to hear Kirk's lungs through a stethoscope.

Jim is saying, "—it's almost done, Bones. I only have to finish up the circuitry on the voice box so that—"

"Damn it, Jim! I can't listen for ominous rattles in your chest if you don't stop yapping!"

Kirk rolls his eyes at his doctor. "There isn't any ominous rattling. I'm not sick."

"Says the man who insisted his winter cough was a tickle and not pneumonia."

With a sheepish grin, Kirk rocks back to put space between him and Leonard, who is seated on a low stool. McCoy idly pats his pockets for his missing pen to jot down a few more notes on Kirk's chart. Jim plucks the pen from behind Leonard's ear—where it had been tucked—and presents it with the request, "I want you to come by my place this weekend. Can you make it?"

"That pigsty you call an apartment or your lab?"

"Lab," answers Jim without hesitation.

 _Figures,_ thinks McCoy. The kid practically lives and breathes his work, only remembering to eat on occasion and shower even less. This "project" that Kirk has prattled on about for the last several visits must be nearing completion. And he wants to share that success with McCoy.

Leonard is rather touched.

The doctor works in silence for the next five minutes, asking Jim questions about his diet, exercise regime—things that he knows the answers to by now. "Well, congratulations, you are in good health. Has your boss instituted better safety procedures? You haven't blown up your laboratory in over three months."

Jim just grins at him. Leonard vacates his stool and proceeds to wash his hands in the small sink, then wipes them very, very slowly on a paper towel.

Kirk grows impatient and demands an answer to his invitation. "Bones!"

Doctor McCoy faces his patient. "I'll make you a deal, Jim. If you promise to keep the next two appointments—and by 'keep' I mean show up and actually wait for me, scary Chapel or not—I will stop by the lab on Saturday."

"Deal." Jim jumps off of the table and grabs his discarded shirt, yanking it back over his head. "You can bring Joanna if you want."

"Her mother has her this weekend."

"Oh."

Jim stands awkwardly in silence for a brief moment, caught between sympathy for his divorced friend and not knowing what to say. Leonard sighs to himself. Then Kirk seems to recall he has an epic project waiting to be finished and enthusiasm returns to his face.

With a happy look, the man gives his doctor a thumbs-up as he opens the door. "See you in a few days, Bones."

"Jim."

Kirk pauses to glance back at Leonard.

"Your shirt's inside out."

Jim glances down in surprise. Then he grins, salutes sloppily, and walks out of Leonard's medical practice without a care.

McCoy shakes his head and prepares to see his next patient.

~~~

Saturday is grey and cloudy, and the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge is just as dismal. McCoy is in a foul mood by the time he parks in front of a _Guest_ sign at Enterprise Corp. A quick glance around the parking lot on his way to the double doors of the tall building tells Leonard that the CEO Christopher Pike isn't in. Pike's flame red Porsche always attracts the eye—and makes poorer men drool.

 _Of course the CEO isn't here,_ thinks the man cynically.

Pike is probably enjoying his weekend on a yacht, sharing tasty drinks with a beautiful woman or two.

Leonard nods to the weekend receptionist, Rand. She tosses him a visitor's pass and buzzes him through the security door without a second glance, too busy painting her nails a bright shade of pink.

Enterprise never closes, its staff dedicated to long shifts and hard work. Leonard suspects there are cots hidden somewhere for those scientists who can't be bothered to vacate the premises at all. There is one such crazy that Leonard has met – a man with a heavy Scottish burr and a wrench always shoved in a loop of his belt. (Leonard isn't sure what kind of science work requires a wrench and not a more delicate tool.)

A long-legged, beautiful woman passes him in the hall. She stops to greet him. "Hello, Leonard. Did Jim talk you into visiting S.P.O.C.K?"

McCoy raises an eyebrow. "I didn't have much planned today, so I'm here."

Nyota Uhura, Director of Quality Control at Enterprise Corp., smiles at him knowingly. "Keep in mind, Mr. McCoy, that the more you visit us, the less likely you are to return _out there._ " By "out there" she means the world beyond the double doors of Enterprise Corp.

Jim has already mentioned something about how "great it would be if you worked here, Bones. We could use a licensed physician on site." Then Kirk had meandered in his conversation to a tale about a short assistant of Scotty's named Keenser who thought he was drinking coffee and actually ingested a compound that Sulu in Botany had extricated from an exotic plant which grows in the rainforests near the mountains of Peru. Keenser had been bloated and a light shade of purple for two days.

 _Idiots,_ Leonard decides. _And geniuses. The entire lot of 'em._

"You heading out?" he asks Uhura.

"Yes. It _is_ the weekend."

"And yet you came to work this morning."

She laughs. "Touche, Doctor McCoy." Her hand brushes his shoulder as she continues down the hallway, her heels rapping sharply on the tile floor.

He finds Jim in the usual spot—in the middle of a whirlwind of papers, parts, and wide-eyed techs who are trying to maintain pace with Jim Kirk, the mad scientist.

"Sir," one tech calls over the clamor of noise, "Doctor McCoy is here."

" _Bones!_ " comes the joyful shout. Jim blinks in Leonard's direction, a welding mask lifted up to reveal Kirk's intense blue eyes. "He's almost ready!"

Who is almost ready?

Leonard tromps down a set of steel stairs, dodges colliding with a box of metal parts in the arms of a wobbling tech, and ends up staring at a mess of wires and a shape that looks vaguely human.

Kirk says proudly, "Meet S.P.O.C.K., Bones."

"Spock?" McCoy stares at the creation. "What is a Spock?"

"The Enterprise's latest invention. S.P.O.C.K. is artificial intelligence," Jim says excitedly.

"You mean like a—a robot?"

"He's better than a robot! A robot is programmed to perform specific actions for specific commands. With A.I., we try to create a way for the machine to solve its own problems."

"That seems impossible."

"Chekov!" hollers Kirk over his shoulder.

A sweet-faced man with a heavy Russian accent calls back, "Yes, Mr. Kirk?"

"Show Bones what S.P.O.C.K. can do!"

"Yes, Mr. Kirk!"

There is the sound of rapid typing, and suddenly S.P.O.C.K. opens a mouth Leonard couldn't see under all the wires running into the metal surface.

"Live long and prosper," says a computerized voice. It draws out the word _long_.

Jim rocks with glee beside McCoy. "Uhura suggested an 'unusual' greeting. To give S.P.O.C.K. some flair."

 _Flair ain't the word,_ Leonard thinks as S.P.O.C.K. rolls its man-made eyes, automatically adjusting their position to fix on McCoy.

"You are not Jim," states the A.I.-robot-android-thing.

"This is Leonard McCoy, S.P.O.C.K. He's a doctor," says Kirk as he slings a friendly arm around McCoy.

"Doctor—a trained individual whose credentials reflect an exceptional academic status; more commonly, the doctor is a professional operating in the healthcare industry—"

McCoy listens with partly with interest and partly with half-disbelief as S.P.O.C.K. elucidates on a range of various meanings, in rapid-fire succession, of the word doctor.

"How does it know all that?"

"We hooked him into an encyclopedia database and let him feed."

"That's… something else, Jim. If I talk to Spock, will it talk back?"

"Your question is unintelligent, Doctor McCoy. I have previously demonstrated my awareness of your presence. My response protocol is superior."

S.P.O.C.K. insulted him. A _computer_ had insulted Leonard McCoy! He should be above retorts, he really should; so Leonard swallows sharp words and turns to Jim instead.

"How long before its batteries run down?"

Jim looks at him sideways. "We're working on a power source that will keep a charge for up to a week. It's almost done in Development and should probably be in QA by next week. Scotty's been hammering on it for days."

He gives Jim what the man wants to hear. "You are brilliant. Do you know that, kid?"

Kirk, strangely enough, flushes. "I have a good team."

"Yeah, but while I'm sure other companies like Enterprise are working on A.I., there's still a difference between y'all."

"What is the difference?"

"You're going to pull it off."

Jim smiles back.

"Thanks, Bones."

"You're welcome. Now did you remember to eat dinner last night?"

"Uh…"

"Thought so. Let's grab lunch."

"What about S.P.O.C.K.?"

Leonard eyes S.P.O.C.K. who eyes him back, silent. "He ain't going nowhere."

It's easy enough to distract Jim with the promise of a hamburger—that is, if the man agrees to temper it with a small salad on the side. As he waits on Kirk to finish issuing directions to the lab staff, Leonard has to work very hard to keep from turning around. S.P.O.C.K., despite being a machine, has presence in the room—and that presence, that active mind of computer chips and wires, is undoubtedly weighing and measuring the new acquaintance called Leonard McCoy.

~~~

Two weeks later, because Leonard has had idle, curious moments and often been tempted to contact Jim to ask how the S.P.O.C.K. project fares, he finds himself pulling into the parking lot of Enterprise Corp. on a Sunday.

"You work even on Sundays, darling?" he asks the secretary Rand as she buzzes him into the main part of the building.

The woman shrugs and pops her bubble gum. "They pay me extra for weekends."

He says nothing else and goes looking for Jim. Surprisingly, Kirk's main working area is almost clean—tables bare, the floor swept. Leonard peers over the railing, seeking a scrap of metal or wire that might be S.P.O.C.K.

Did something go wrong? Did Pike pull the funding on the project?

A bit anxious, he heads to the breakroom.

There is only one person seated at the long table. Books are scattered about him and Leonard doesn't recognize the slope of those shoulders or that face lifted to inspect the person interrupting a study session of some sort.

Then the stranger says to Leonard, "Doctor McCoy" and a chill runs down Leonard's spine.

It's the same voice, too computerized to be human. "Spock?"

"Affirmative. I am S.P.O.C.K."

He can't help himself, he has to step closer to stare, open-mouthed at the A.I. "You look… like a real person!"

 _Oh God_ , how surreal is that, when S.P.O.C.K. lifts its eyebrow.

"The material which overlays my outer shell was synthesized to resemble the texture of the human epidermis."

"But you have… hair."

"Also replicated, Doctor McCoy."

"Why are your ears pointed?"

"Dr. Uhura designed my features."

They look at one another, McCoy in the doorway and S.P.O.C.K. still sitting, straight-backed and unblinking. Leonard guesses that the machine doesn't blink, having no need to retain moisture about the eyes.

"I, uh, I was looking for Jim," he says rather dumbly.

"Jim Kirk is partaking of the ritual of sleep."

"He's at this apartment then."

"Negative." S.P.O.C.K. stands so suddenly that Leonard takes one step back. "Jim resides on sublevel one, in a room built to accommodate the human need for respite. I will _escort-usher-lead_ you, if you wish."

The three verbs are said so close together that they are difficult to sort out. McCoy notes how S.P.O.C.K., though expressionless (Do computers smile? Can they?), shifts his stance.

Since Leonard doesn't know where Jim is napping, and security might toss him out if they find a visitor randomly opening and closing doors, he accepts S.P.O.C.K.'s offer. They walk, Leonard too caught up in watching the A.I. march like a well-behaved soldier, to pay attention to the elevator they enter and exit, or the doors they pass through.

Now McCoy wishes that he had listened to Jim's long-winded explanation over burgers and fries on the intricacies of how this thing was built. Are the joints all wires and hinges? Will they need to be oiled? And what about the fake skin… is it like plastic…?

He is reaching out to touch S.P.O.C.K. before he finishes his next thought.

S.P.O.C.K. immediately halts in the corridor and turns its head to observe McCoy. "Desist."

Leonard instantly retracts his hand. "Sorry. Curiosity got the better of me."

Then it does something strange. It tilts its head and remarks, "Only authorized personnel of Enterprise shall come in contact with—" It pauses, as if uncertain of how to categorize itself.

Well, Leonard has even less idea. He is still boggling over the idea of a computer acting like a man.

"Jim established this rule," it goes on to state.

He nods. "Okay. I won't, er, come in contact with your person."

" _Accepted-received—indeed._ " S.P.O.C.K. faces forward again, then repeats, "Indeed" like the word has found approval in its growing language database.

They stop in front of a door; that is, S.P.O.C.K. stops, goes so still that Leonard wonders if it has powered off. McCoy raises his hand and knocks on the door, thinking that he does not want to explain to Jim that he broke an expensive toy just by walking with it down the hallway. No one answers.

S.P.O.C.K. speaks, clear-toned. "Explain your action."

Leonard looks from his fist against the door to his computer-companion. "It's called knocking."

"Knocking."

Then he realizes that S.P.O.C.K. does not understand how—or why—knocking is appropriate. "Consider knocking," explains the doctor, "to be protocol before entering a room with a closed door. I wish to let Jim know that I am present outside of this door so that he is not surprised when I walk inside. Watch." He demonstrates a slow and steady series of three knocks.

S.P.O.C.K. lifts its arm (Leonard belatedly realizing that its hands had been clasped behind its back in military style) and knocks on the door.

_BOOM-BOOM-BOOM._

McCoy winces at the large dent now scarring the door. Said-door flies open. A bleary-eyed and rumpled James Kirk stares back at them. He looks first at S.P.O.C.K., saying nothing, and then to McCoy. "Bones?"

"Mornin', sunshine."

Kirk sags against the doorframe. "I was asleep."

"So my escort said."

That perks up the young man. "Do you like him?"

Leonard runs a critical eye over the A.I. unit. "Spock's a bit… flat-mannered, if that's what you're asking."

Jim waves them inside. The room brightens on command (one of Enterprise's more popular patents released to the public). Kirk sits on the end of a narrow bed, its sheet thrown haphazardly off the side.

"We've made a lot of progress with him."

"I can see that," Leonard responds dryly.

"S.P.O.C.K.," Jim says, "I thought you were reading."

"The doctor required assistance to find your location, Jim."

Jim smiles. "Thanks, then."

S.P.O.C.K. interrupts whatever else Jim might say by asking, "I do not _understand-comprehend-grasp_ your reference of 'bones.' I require an explanation."

"Why does it keep doing that?"

"Glitch," answers Jim. "S.P.O.C.K. has yet to determine a database of words which will characterize his personality. He is testing synonyms in threes and then calculates a best-fit curve for each word against what he wants to express. Bones is my nickname for Doctor McCoy, S.P.O.C.K."

Leonard gingerly sits down beside Kirk. S.P.O.C.K. remains standing.

"That's… unbelievable, Jim. So what we use our instinct to determine, Spock uses math. And you think he can be taught to react emotionally?"

"It's not a matter of if, Bones, but _when._ In my blueprints—"

"That's exactly what I mean!" Leonard looks at S.P.O.C.K. "You _built_ him, Jim. Unless you've got the power of God…"

"No one," Jim bites out roughly, unexpectedly, "is playing God at Enterprise. You're missing the point. We push boundaries here— _go where no man has gone before._ This is about taking the technology we have today to the next level."

McCoy shakes his head but doesn't argue. "I'm not against this, Jim. I just can't comprehend it."

His friend relaxes, then begins to search for his shoes. "I didn't mean to snap. I-I usually don't—I can't—Pike's riding me about the project."

"I'm sorry," Leonard says with sincerity. Watching Jim toe one scuffed tennis shoe while frowning down at it, the man decides to save an argument for another day. "So tell me what Spock can do up to this point."

"Plenty of stuff. S.P.O.C.K. has sensors in the eyes and ears for visual and auditory detection… though we haven't figured out how to include taste yet… S.P.O.C.K., what are you doing at this moment?"

"I am responding to your inquiry," S.P.O.C.K. says.

Jim casts an amused eye over the A.I. unit while stuffing a foot into a shoe. "I swear he's learning the ability to joke."

"A joke-cracking computer. Fantastic, Jim. Can he sing and dance too?"

"Illogical," is S.P.O.C.K.'s immediate opinion. "I do not pursue the principle of _playfulness-frivolity-fun_.

Jim pauses to grin as he pulls on his second shoe. "He likes that word. A lot."

"It is illogical to like a word."

Leonard grins too. "You just said it again, Spock."

The A.I. unit stares at McCoy for a solid ten seconds before initiating a precise pivot towards the door. In other words, he presents his back to the doctor.

Leonard shakes his head in wonder. "I'm gonna have to start coming over more, Jim," he says as he gestures at S.P.O.C.K. "If only to help your Spock work on his budding 'humanity.'"

Jim replies, blinking at the socks in his hand and the shoes already on his feet, "Then I won't have to stop by your office."

He snorts. "And I'll tell Chapel her job now includes personal house-calls to your apartment."

Kirk's eyes widen. "Never mind."

S.P.O.C.K., apparently analyzing their conversation while facing in the other direction, interjects smoothly, "If Doctor McCoy increases the frequency of his visits for the purpose of _examination-perusal-assessment_ of my skills, he must be granted clearance."

"I'm clearing him, S.P.O.C.K.," is Kirk's answer as he walks to the door.

"Understood."

Leonard winks at the A.I. unit as he catches up to Jim striding out the door. After a moment, S.P.O.C.K. engages in motion and follows Leonard. McCoy waits so that the pair can walk side-by-side with Kirk in the lead.

S.P.O.C.K. begins to talk. "Doctor McCoy, you exhibit human habits which I have not notated among the personnel of Enterprise. I perceive that you shall augment my studies in the areas of social ineptitude, unwarranted behavior, and—"

Leonard sputters. "You… you computerized, pointy-eared…"

S.P.O.C.K. only replies, "Fascinating."

Ahead of them, Jim is humming happily as he pushes the button for the elevator.

Leonard thinks he has just landed himself in a world of trouble.

Jim is saying, "Maybe we can arrange a field trip for S.P.O.C.K. to your clinic, Bones. We can improve on his level of interaction—"

He imagines S.P.O.C.K. questioning children and attempting to "fix" Leonard's patients for the sake of knowledge. Oh yes, McCoy is certain that he is in trouble.

And, somehow, that brightens his day.


End file.
